Thank You So Much For The Tag, Nezz 

HAPPY IDES OF MARCH, JULES!

well. maybe not so happy for you.... 🗡 🗡 🗡 /silly

Tis the season, I suppose. In any case, it's nice to see you again Fallen.

love as recognition

anna gavalda / friedrich nietzsche / clarice lispector / jandy nelson / rebecca perry / mhairi mcfarlane

Do You Dream of the Stars? Or Better Yet, Is It What Makes You Wake Up Screaming?

Have you ever thought about the vastness of everything in the macrocosm? About looking out a spaceship window and seeing nothing but an endless sea of darkness? Ask yourself, can space really be endless? I mean, we all know the universe isn't… but what happens at the end of the universe? Like if I was to get in a spaceship could I just keep on going and going forever without ever revisiting the same places? This is terrifying to me, that there are places out there that will never be seen by human eyes. Then there's that pesky phrase, “Space is expanding”. Well how can that be true? How am I supposed to conceptualize cosmic inflation theory, if there isn't the dark matter of space in the spots it's expanded to before, then just what was there before? What do we call that? This doesn't freak anyone else out?

 I want to visualize and understand all of it. The below, the above, what surrounds our being.  If. I could just map it out and understand fully, then it wouldn't make my head spin as much. It feels like unfinished work that will never be completed... Which I guess in a way, it sort of is

Do you ever see a post that makes you feel sad, and you can't place your finger on why..?

Do you ever wish you could take the steam with you?

Realized I have a naked rat and a small piano

Here's Harry banging out the tunes, April 13th 2023

Okay because I have no idea, how does House of Leaves work?

It’s a book about a guy stuck in a hellish version of a 90s stereotype who finds an academic paper about a documentary film about a home that is bigger on the inside than it should be. Except that the home isn’t a real home. The documentary doesn’t exist. The academic has no credentials.

It’s a book about a guy who finds an unfinished novel his neighbor died in the middle of writing about a photojournalist who puts aside his career to save his marriage but who gets sucked into an adventure within his own home.

Except that it’s none of those things. It’s an assault on the reader. It’s a crowbar thrown in your confidence in The Consensus. Its (404) errors in the directory of Narratives.

The House is older than God. The House is God. The House is nothing. The House is a 5 letter word in a blue font.

The House doesn’t like tourists

It’s a typographical horrorshow. It’s a caricature of an analysis of a documentation of a map. It’s an Atlas of The Backrooms. It’s a non-Euclidean document. It’s the only book I’ve ever hissed at.

“How does it work?”

It doesn’t

Tumblr Is Once Again Trying To Warn Me I'm Becoming A Miserable Bastard

A Dream About A Moose

I would like preface before we begin with the details of exactly what I dreamt the other night, that I am uncertain if this is in fact a memory or if it was simply a stress dream brought on by my anticipation of finals, and the steady balance of the different aspects of my life that all come to a head around the holidays. This is going to be a fairly dark read. It taps into the very real horrors of the waking world and yet it was abstract, and so odd in the way these concepts presented themselves. So if you're easily disheartened by themes of body horror, hunting, and losing your sense of self, it's best you turn away from this particular post. Last of all–

I'm aware how bad this looks for me if it is a memory. I'm aware I may lose some friends I've made online, but after talking it over with someone who gave me a new perspective to look at it from, I've decided I'm going to share anyway.

 I remember it started off with me feeling dazed, like when you're lost in thought for a while and suddenly your focus is violently broken. The room was so dark that the shadows stretched and overlapped with each other, making ominous pulling figures that looked like they could snatch you at a moment’s notice. 

The ceiling fan is nothing more than a dark star, churning the heavy, high tension that's in the room, a tension I almost don't understand…almost, until I saw her. She looked to be in her thirties, a mousey little thing with beige brown hair in messy curls around her crown. Her gaze is locked on me, and she is terrified. I mean it makes sense that this dream person would be scared; a random person showed up in her room, but even stranger is that she doesn't make a single move to get up and confront me, make a run for it, or show any self preservation. She just lays there, head propped up by an almost absurd amount of silken pillows, her eyes wide and nearly unblinking– like she's afraid if she does, something awful will happen.

It's then that I realize with a start that she should be scared. I'm here for a reason, and I'm only delaying the natural progression of this dream. I read a study once that said you cannot create a new face in a dream. Every face that appears in a dream is one you once seen and retained in the subconscious parts of your mind. Yet she seemed so real, and so distant in my memories. So I move closer. I don't know why, but I'm waiting for some sort of revelation. Like she’ll suddenly remember me, or maybe she'll tell me how she found herself in such a predicament in the first place. Most of all, I'm holding on for her words. I need it, like a damn second wind. I feel it like an ache in the pit of my stomach, and only she can make it right, if she just tells me why I'm here. 

Why am I here, Cassandra? 

Why am I here? 

Instead, she just sucks in a sharp breath, in that way that makes the collarbone have more depth and prominence. I can see it in her eyes, she knows why I'm here. She stares up at me, her pupils trembling in the brown iris, the pallor of her face. I reach up my hand to her face- and really it's a wonder how I'm so calm during all this. I look at my hands.. I don't know if they're my hands. They look wrong. They don't look human, but of course I don't even have time to panic over such trivial things, when more important things are right in the room with me. So I gently wipe the stray tear that's running down her face, and then, I jam my finger right into the pupil of her eye, and watch my fingers melt down into the dark space, far off into fragmented realities we dare not revisit, for fear that history could repeat itself.

And then just like that, I'm in the woods. Have you ever heard of Golden hour? It's around the time when the sun is level with your eyes and everything is awash in yellow. It's actually one of the better times to hunt deer because deer often use the sun's position to their advantage. Deer will move into the setting/rising sun so any potential danger that could be dangerous ahead of them is silhouetted. I knew this because I was a deer hunter, and in fact I took so much pride in being a female hunter that I had several bumper stickers on my car referring to this fact.

..But that wasn't right… I am not a deer hunter, and I'm certainly not… but I look at my shaking slender hands, with chipped nude nail polish, and a wedding ring, and it's all true. More importantly, I am without my hunting rifle, and I'm running from something, farther and farther into unfamiliar territory. The woods are quiet, so deafeningly quiet, but somehow I was certain that I had not lost whatever was chasing me. My heart racing, I look around for somewhere to hide, and am only greeted by a vast sea of thin pines, with sparse branches. There is nowhere to hide. This is the last gasp of breath I give, while looking down the barrel of a shotgun. 

But I'm not- Cassandra’s not ready to die. She watched her husband die to that thing, that stalks the treeline, that may have once called itself a moose. She wasn't going to let it kill her too, not without a fight…but the hunting rifle was gone, and I was greatly outmatched in terms of strength. Have you ever seen a normal, average moose angry? Do you even know how much they weigh? I feel my breath hitch in the back of my throat in a sort of frenzied crescendo, when my eyes finally lock on a smattering of large, jagged rocks there hidden amongst the trees, on the incline of the mountain. Cassandra was definitely small enough to squeeze between the rocks. All she needed was to arm herself. So that's what she did, she frantically did a once over the forest floor before finally grabbing a sturdy enough fallen branch, and wedged herself in between the rocks, sitting low with her knees up, her back pressed against the rocks as she tried to control her breathing.

Somehow she knew the moose was watching her, she could feel its sour breath on her soul, hunting her, ready to take back from her what she had taken from the forest’s precious ecosystem. As dusk settled into a burning red in the last dying light, the malnourished outline of the moose took form. The moose was malnourished, yes. That much is true, but it was large, and it's limbs seem to bend in ways a moose’s legs should not be able to, the knees going back farther and farther as it drunkenly stumbled amongst the trees, eyes glowing in it's feverish search for Cassandra, who was now holding up her stick in a position to strike. 

The blood of her husband still stained the moose, the matted coat clotted in dark red and made a macabre crown around his head. The beast’s lips curled into a snarl revealing the sharp teeth of a carnivore, much like a big cat’s or even a bear. The moose began to circle the boulders, nose snuffling as it took in the bursting embers of Cassandra's mounting dead, and as the moose slipped out of her line of vision between the gap in the rocks, time seemed to stop. Every second seemed an eternity, as twilight slipped slowly into night like a forming bruise. I watch the sun set, as the eye of our tormenter eclipses our view, having finally found us-

And then Cassandra is screaming me awake, screaming as if she was right back in that moment of being prey to something bigger than she could ever dream of being. She knows screaming is her only chance of being rid of me, and she's apparently right because that's when I woke up from the dream, having felt like she was so very real. Maybe it was bit naive, but I actually had to sit up and look to make sure I was in my room and not that dream. There was this sour acid taste in the back of my mouth too- and I downed about three glasses of water right there at the kitchen sink that night. 

This dream has left me shaken and lost. That's not the right word though, lost. I know exactly where I am, but I'm so fragmented, so stretched thin that it can hardly count that I am here, right now. All I have is my words, and I hope that's enough for you.

If I may also give a recommendation for sources; the SCP Foundation, and a bunch of its canons, have a ton of 'doomed timeline' stories. I am specifically more versed in the Church of the Broken God and Sarkicism groups of interests, but I would also recommend looking into the O5 Council as what you have described may align more with them.

-@sssssaarn

I apologize for the late reply, I wanted to take a proper amount of time answering this one because truth be told, I had a bit of SCP phase back in the early 2010s, and of course I happened to take a peek into the fandom once again when liminal space aesthetics and ‘The Backrooms’ rose to prominence. I remember back yesteryear, how my peers would all sit around one kid while they played the game and desperately wishing for that kind of kinship, but I digress. There is something that certainly allures me about the SCP fandom as a whole. The aesthetic, but also the anomaly classification system.The idea of bringing order to something so naturally chaotic really intrigues me. All you need to do is just look at one symbol in the classification system and you immediately know what source material you’re interacting with.. Thank you for the recommendation, I certainly will consider it.